


When Every Breath We Drew Was Hallelujah

by calenlily



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Hallelujah - Leonard Cohen (Song), Hymn to Demeter - Homer
Genre: Body Worship, F/M, Myth retelling as prologue to smut, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:00:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21949210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calenlily/pseuds/calenlily
Summary: Remember when I moved in you / The holy dark was moving too...During Hades and Persephone's first separation, doubt creeps in.
Relationships: Hades/Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 82
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	When Every Breath We Drew Was Hallelujah

**Author's Note:**

  * For [joy_shines](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joy_shines/gifts).



> Is it blasphemous to write fic about Greek gods for a very Jewish song?
> 
> This was supposed to be almost entirely PWP and then somehow I wrote an entire myth retelling as introduction.

It had been a bad start, there’s no denying it. Hades knows much of laws and little of women. He’s been so long alone, and it would be fitting for his realm to have a queen. And so: Zeus offers his daughter in marriage, says he will make arrangements for Hades to take her, and Hades never thinks to question it. A father’s consent is all that is necessary, and Zeus knows so much more of these things than he does.

He realizes his error quickly and vividly, struck by the fear and the hurt in the girl’s eyes. This way may be deemed appropriate by the laws of gods and men, but in no manner can he call it just.

It takes him months to earn her trust: months of treating her as an honored guest and showing her about his domain. In time their uneasy coexistence warms into friendship, partnership, something deeper. The first time Persephone comes to his bed of her own accord is the sweetest of victories.

For a few weeks - the briefest of eyeblinks in the lifespan of an immortal - she is his consort in truth. And then Hermes comes, with the news of how Demeter is killing the world above, the decree that Persephone must return to Olympus and her mother.

They have only minutes left to themselves. He promises her honor as his queen, reminds her of what he has to offer, and slips her a handful of pomegranate seeds, the fruit of his realm. She takes them, and kisses him, the juice tart on her lips, promising without words that she will come back to him.

But then she is gone, and the news from Olympus troubles him more and more. The story that spreads is of how he had deceived her, had forced her to eat. The word is of how Persephone thrives in the sunlight and at her mother’s side, how flowers bloom in her footsteps and all green things grow lush and gods and men alike rejoice.

Hades remembers Persephone in his bed, sweet and fierce, yielding and passionate, and wonders if it was all a lie. He has often been called stern and unfeeling, but in her arms he was undone. When he loved her, he meant it with every fiber of his being; he’d thought she had too. Had she only been making the best of what she thought was an unavoidable fate?

Persephone has been gone now longer than she’d ever been with him, and it’s easy to doubt. Maybe it’s better this way. What can a god like him truly offer to a goddess of growing things? What is his love worth, what is honor, compared to the warmth of the living world?

***

The mortals have their harvest, and Persephone returns to the underworld, a ray of sunlight in his dark realm. Dressed in a white chiton edged in red and gold, with a wreath of narcissus and asphodel adorning her fair hair, she is regal and dignified, every inch the queen. She bids Hermes a courteous farewell, and passes gracefully through his halls. Hades isn’t sure whether to be pleased by how she’s matured into her role or distressed by the opacity of her thoughts.

As soon as they are behind closed doors, she launches herself into his arms.

It’s so far from the reaction he’d braced himself for that he draws away in disbelief. “Persephone, you don’t need to act for me. I know I’ve trapped you; you don’t have to pretend gratitude.”

“What are you … oh.” Her eyes go wide in sudden comprehension, and her expression turns sorrowful. “I lied to Demeter, and I am sorry for that; I never imagined it would get back to you. She would not have believed the truth, and I did not wish to fight. She would see me a child eternally, when I have been a wife and a queen, but she is still my mother and I missed her.”

He still has trouble believing. “You’re a goddess of the land and fertility; surely you prefer the realm of living things?”

She shakes her head. “I have more aspects than that, and more places I belong. I will not deny I’d missed the world above. But I missed our kingdom, too, when I was away. This is my home, too.  _ You _ are my home too.” She stands and unwinds her golden girdle, pulls the ruby-headed pins that secure the shoulders of her chiton. The fabric falls away to pool at her feet. “My lord husband, I beg of you, do not deny me.”

His breath catches in his throat. “My lady. I could deny you nothing.” He steps forward and takes her in his arms.

She winds her arms around his neck, fingers twisting in the dark curls of his hair. Her breath is hot on the shell of his ear. “Then make me yours once more.”

“As my queen commands,” he murmurs, and lifts her into his arms, carrying her to their bed.

She settles herself atop him, her skin warm and soft against him, her legs straddling his thigh. She kisses him long and hungrily; her lips taste of honey and ambrosia. He runs his fingers through the flaxen strands of her hair, loosing the ribbons that have bound it up until the whole mass tumbles free about her shoulders. The crown of flowers has already fallen from her head, leaving petals strewn across the floor, but their fragrance clings to her hair.

She trails light kisses along the line of his jaw and the underside of his neck, sucks at the prominence of his throat. Her hips writhe over him, and her hand slips up beneath his tunic to fondle his shaft where he swells against her.

He groans, overwhelmed by the pleasure of her touch. He fears she will have him undone before they have truly begun. “Have mercy on me, wife, it’s been too long. I want to appreciate you properly.”

He rolls her off of him and onto her back, and pulls away only long enough to disrobe efficiently. She watches intently, rich brown eyes darkened with desire.

He kneels over her, and bends to capture her lips again as his hands cup the warm weight of her small, high breasts. She makes a needy sound low in her throat, encouraging him as he kneads the tender flesh.

He moves on to take one pebbled nipple and then the other into his mouth. His fingers ghost over the length of her arms, raising gooseflesh in their wake. His hands are pale against her sun-kissed skin.

Slowly he moves over her slender body, worshiping each inch of exposed skin. He traces the ridge of her hips, the crease of her inner thighs, before coming at last to the juncture of her legs. Her nether lips are slick with her essence; he lowers his mouth to her, parting their folds with his tongue to stroke at the delicate bud that is the seat of her pleasure.

She arches up under him, and cries out. “Please,” she gasps. “I need to be joined with you.”

It’s a plea he cannot resist, and he slides up her body to bury himself in the wet heat of her core. Her arms and legs wrap tightly around him, her face burying in the crook of his neck. He stills for a long moment, savoring that first sensation of union, the ecstasy of homecoming.

Then he pulls back almost to the tip, and strokes back into her so slowly he can feel every inch of her flesh sliding over him, her sheath clenching around his shaft. He keeps moving within her in that same slow, sensual rhythm until her hips buck up under him impatiently and he has to hold her in place.

He straightens up into a kneeling position, pulling her up with him so that she sits straddling his lap. From this angle she has only to rock against him to send sensation spiking up his shaft. He brushes her hair back from her face and kisses her deeply.

He leans back enough to regard her face, flushed with pleasure and so very dear to him. Her eyes are darkened nearly to black, and filled with such intensity of emotion that it’s almost too much to bear.

Their eyes lock, and the moment is transformed into something more; there’s a palpable sense that this is something sacred, something profound, giving new weight of meaning to the phrase “making love”.

Finally she ducks her head, overwhelmed, and begins moving urgently over him. Knowing he cannot hold back much longer, he reaches a hand between their bodies and gently massages the sensitive bud above her entrance. She presses her face into his shoulder, stifling a cry as her body contracts around him. The pleasure of the sensation sweeps away the last of his control, and his climax takes him; with a strangled moan he spends his seed in her welcoming depths.

Still clutching her close, he collapses onto his side. “Mine,” he murmurs against her hair, reverent. “My love. My queen.”

“As you are mine, my love, and always shall be,” Persephone asserts fervently. “Know that I will always come back to you.”


End file.
